The Imperial Courtier
by Hermione Prime
Summary: 1840, Victorian Era. Harry Potter is the high-born son of Count and Countess Potter. Every wizard aristocrat of the High Court longs to gain the King's favour but it is a powerful, new courtier named Lord Voldemort who does so. Harry's life tips upside down when the King dies and a prince is needed to take the throne. And naturally, Lord Voldemort has his own plans...
1. A Curse for a Nation

**Disclaimer: I can gamble with you on my entire month's store of chips that I do not own anything in Harry Potter. Anything you do not recognise, however, I can take for my own.**

* * *

The Imperial Courtier

He squirmed uncomfortably. The ballroom was unbearably hot, and the sheer amount of lords and ladies coagulating the space seemed ridiculous. Perching awkwardly on the gentle lap of his mother, Harry stared out into the sea of unfamiliar faces.

"Harry," Lily whispered quietly in his ear, "behave for me this evening, honey, won't you? Do not speak unless you are spoken to and answer to our guests politely… Daddy will be proud of you."

Being only seven years old, Harry considered himself mature for his age; at least he attempted to lessen the burden his parents carried, unlike his younger brother.

"Yes, Mother," Harry promised, reclining against her bosom. He watched as yet another couple emerged from the crowd and approached them.

"Oh, it's _such_ a cute little child you have!" a woman gushed, pressing a delicate hand to her thickly powdered cheeks. "I simply _must_ remember to bring him a birthday present! And what of your other son?"

Lily's eyes sparkled merrily, her fingers instantly moving to run through Harry's raven hair. "Francis is still ill, I regret. Harry, this is Lady Lorena and her respected consort, Sir Ashwood."

"How do you do, Lady Lorena, Sir Ashwood," Harry chirped obediently, echoing the words his mother had repeatedly drummed into his head. "Enchanted to meet you."

"Sweet tongued as a nightingale, just like his father." Lady Lorena beamed. "How _is_ Count Potter?"

"At the peak of his health. He will make an appearance tonight, but he refuses to leave Francis' bedside." Lily shook her head exasperatedly. "Dotes on our boy."

"Quite understandable," Lady Lorena replied. "My partner and I have been longing to take a waltz down your splendid dance floor all evening… If you will pardon me, Countess."

Harry looked up, with his bright emerald eyes, at his mother.

She was beautiful. Dressed in an opulent evening gown with delicately short sleeves and a low neckline that hung like dew from her shoulders, with fingerless lace adorning her milky, smooth hands, she was a flawless picture of a Victorian aristocrat.

"You can recite Elizabeth Browning's full poem, yes?" Lily asked, her voice luxuriously rich. "They will be impressed."

Harry was silent for a moment, his young mind swimming with the prosperous words in the poem that played themselves like keys on a grand piano.

"Yes." He hoped he wouldn't stutter or stumble or abruptly forget the lines; he knew that his mother, as tender as she was, would be furious.

Midway through the nightly ball, Lily requested the guests' attention and directed all the attention onto _him_, saying, "My dearest lords and ladies, I present to you my oldest son, Harry, who has eagerly volunteered himself as entertainment tonight. I do hope you will excuse his self-indulgence and humour him."

With that, Harry was propelled forward until he stood directly at the front of the room. A smattering of scattered applause greeted him as some of the most powerful witches and wizards in the High Court turned expectant eyes on him.

"It's…er…a pleasure to entertain you all…" Harry faltered, stringing phrases together as he spoke, resaying his mother's words without a single idea of their meaning.

He glanced swiftly at his mother, who was frantically mouthing words at him from the other side of the room, for help.

The audience surveyed him with barely-concealed aloofness.

"I- I want… I know a poem… it's called _A Curse for a Nation._ I think it…" Harry trailed off forlornly. He struggled to meet Lily's unhappy expression.

"Forgive my son," Lily interrupted, her voice exceptionally loud. "He has difficulties speaking in public, a substantial drawback, but he has a remarkable memory. He wishes to present you with the poetry, _A Curse for a Nation _by Elizabeth Browning."

"I heard an angel speak last night. And he said 'Write! Write a Nation's curse for me. And send it over the Western Sea,'" Harry recited, blushing with embarrassment. "I faltered, taking up the word: 'Not so, my lord!' If curses must be, choose another to send thy curse against my brother."

The rest of the strikingly lengthy, three-part polemic lasted for nearly ten minutes, after which Harry was immediately sent away from the ball to visit his brother.

He left in disappointment. It had not gone _horribly_; he thought the ladies had been relatively captivated, crooning at his apparent 'aptitude'…but nonetheless this was his life.

Either to impress on his mother's behalf or to be hidden away like an embarrassing ornament.

—0O0—

_Nine Years Later_

Leaning on the banister at the top of the staircase, Harry Potter observed the unfolding drama below him expressionlessly. His 'joyous' family was exceedingly amusing to witness – but to think he had once regarded himself as one of them was disgraceful.

"Mother!" Francis, his 'dear' brother, hissed. "I am courting Lady Roselle this evening. I cannot be expected to participate in the King's feast."

Harry scoffed inwardly to himself. Francis, the charming and handsome young son of an esteemed household, had nothing on his mind but stimulations, wealth and romance.

"Oh, Francis, you must cancel your plans tonight," Lily insisted. "Haven't you heard? His Highness has introduced a new courtier to his court. Rumours say the courtier is only a young man – but he has the King's favour."

Harry, who had grown tired of the conversation, suddenly perked up with interest. _A new courtier? Young man? _

He wondered why he had not heard this before.

The vicious competition was nothing short of a bloodbath in the courts. Lord and ladies, barons and baronesses, they fought tooth and nail for the King's attention and approval.

It was the only method of survival in these times.

Gain the King's dislike, and one could be cast out to roam the streets. One word emitted from the King's mouth, and every shred of luxury one had ever known would be stripped away.

Harry had seen it too often. From the time he had turned nine, right up to his current age, sixteen, he had seen lords and ladies of different ranks reduced to scum littered on the streets by His Royal Highness.

Even his own parents strove for the King's esteem…and they had it. They were one of the more successful families.

One conclusion could be drawn: the High Courts were a dangerous place to be. A plush, gilded cage.

Deep down, Harry could not help but have a lingering suspicion that the King was a fool. His Highness lacked the superior aura of a king. But he had a cherished advisor, who he never went anywhere without.

But of course, that was a treacherous thought to have. One could be hung for thinking the King was controlled by his own adviser.

Harry's train of thoughts were disrupted by the little scurrying maid.

"Master Potter," the maid piped, "the Countess expects you to be ready for His majesty's feast by seven in the evening."

"I know, Donna," Harry said, keeping his voice light.

The young girl, with her plain mousy hair and soft doe eyes, was so easily spooked. He supposed serving one of the most influential families of the High Courts did that to a girl.

"What is it about the new courtier?" he asked. "Have you heard anything of late?" Servants, it seemed, were naturally invisible and collected so much more information.

"No, Master Potter," the girl responded. "But the Countess seems very interested in him."

_Of course she would be. They all are. Always wondering who will steal the King's attention away._

"Thank you," Harry said, dismissing her.

As soon as Donna turned the corner, a sneer weaved its way onto his features. It seemed his mother cared nothing but maintaining the family's reputation and scoring the King's liking.

As a child, he was made to perform in front of guests… and once he was done, he would be stored away. He had not always known why.

It was childish naivety, he supposed, that he had ever thought the Countess had ever been more concerned about him than upholding the family pride. He had always been a way to booster the family name, nothing more.

A softly spoken encouragement and a hug when she wanted someone from him. A cold glare if he happened to embarrass her.

Harry refused to be used anymore.

"What are you doing up here?" Francis demanded. "Mother wants to speak with you downstairs." He pushed past Harry and stormed away in a huff, apparently still raging over his postponed meeting with Lady Roselle.

Reining in his own temper, Harry slowly made his way downstairs where he was greeted by Lily's open arms.

"You know, darling, the king is holding a feast tonight –"

"I know," he said coldly.

Lily seemed taken aback for a few seconds. "_Well_, His Majesty is bringing a well-mannered young man. I'd appreciate it if you could become acquainted with him. You need some companions, goodness, you are always so _alone_."

Harry had known she had expected something from him the moment her arms drew around him in a clever act of manipulation.

"Is Francis unavailable?" he asked.

"Oh, Francis is your _younger_ brother. The courtier would be…older…there'll be more of an age difference," Lily said. "Please, Harry, don't be difficult."

"Fine," he agreed sharply. "I'll do it." The job sounded interesting enough and it would satisfy his own inquisitiveness.

—0O0—

From his seat, Harry studied the King on his golden throne. There was a bejewelled crown perched on his head, more magnificent than he could ever be.

To his right stood his Royal Advisor, Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore, with his long beard tied elegantly out of the way, was dressed in modest robes. There was a kindly sparkle in his ancient eyes, but Harry knew better.

To his left was a young man who could only be the new imperial courtier.

Harry, for a flitting moment, was entranced by the power the stranger radiated. Dark, magnetic, undiluted. His posture was refined and assertive, his stance sophisticated.

The blue eyes, chilling as the Artic snow, flashed subtly across the room. The ebony hair was levelled back, leaving his pale forehead exposed.

He was a picture of magnificence.

Francis, sitting next to Harry, gave him a poke in the ribs. "Never thought he could be _so_ young."

Harry secretly agreed. The man looked he could not have been older than eighteen.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the King stand.

"Welcome, welcome, my kind lords and ladies. Allow me to introduce you to Lord Voldemort, a new member of my court," His Highness said.

As the words left his mouth, the hall burst to life. Lord Voldemort stepped from his position beside the King.

Things became informal at once. As young men requested dances from young ladies, Harry stood up and made for Lord Voldemort. He had to introduce himself.

Little did he know how one introduction changed his entire life. Perhaps it truly was a curse for a nation.

* * *

**Please, reviews are like cakes to a writer.**


	2. Mother o' Mine

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter...does...not belong to me.**

**I want to thank all of you who wrote me reviews. *Yum, yum* - and especially ChizomenoHime who fed me a brownie. That aside, feel free to write more reviews! **

* * *

Advancing with his eyes fixed tightly on the older man ahead, Harry self-consciously cleared his throat to catch the attention of the new courtier.

He, Lord Voldemort, turned immediately… and Harry found himself pinned to the spot by a pair of the most intensely cunning eyes he had ever seen. Supressing an instinctive shudder, he calmly extended his hand.

"How do you do, my Lord…" he kept his tone nonchalant, indifferent, to make up for the humiliating age difference. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Harry Potter."

"Pleasure," the courtier replied coolly. "Prominent son of the most favoured Countess in court, am I right?"

Harry found himself raked by the other's penetrating glance. "Uh…" he was at a loss for words. Lord Voldemort's vast knowledge for a new arrival surprised him. "I wouldn't call her the _most_ favoured – but you are not too shoddy yourself."

A charming chuckle, rich with amusement, arose from the wizard's throat. "Harry… you are rather the little smooth talker, are you not?"

A light disconcerted tint of pink crept over Harry's cheeks before he could stop it.

"I personally find you exotically mature…for a child," Lord Voldemort continued. "Why don't you familiarise me with your lovely mother?"

It was like a bitter candy enfolded in the most beautiful wrapping. Harry could feel the beginnings of distaste for the man who stood arrogantly in front of him.

He had just been delivered an order in the form of a request.

"Naturally," Harry said. "She's here." With that, he led the aristocrat in the direction of his _beloved_ mother.

The Countess inhaled in astonishment when her oldest son stepped gracefully in her way and neatly beckoned towards the new courtier.

Next, she found her hand pressed to the pale lips of the strange young man with a disarmingly dazzling smile.

"You must be Lord Voldemort," she said, with a seemingly gracious expression. "We have heard so much of you from His Highness. It is truly an honour."

"The honour is mine," Lord Voldemort answered silkily.

Standing a few metres away from the pair, Harry felt a disgust rising within himself as he watched his mother exchange polite greetings with the man.

He was so experienced in the _royal_ ways that he could pick up the most subtle of body language and the most indirect of mockery.

He saw the probing look his mother gave Voldemort as she calculatingly drank up everything to note about him, and the look the court member sent back that was double the force.

He saw the coldness of formality between them as they sized each other up in an estimation of how much challenge one another would prove to be.

Seeing how _occupied _they seemed to be, Harry retreated into the darkness with more than a tiny sense of relief. Although he enjoyed the occasional thrill of a political battle, he was not keen on surrounding himself with it full time. It always got tiring.

He heaved a heavy sigh. The night was still young, and the feast would stretch past midnight. He'd better engage himself or face inevitable boredom.

There were many attractive females in the hall, dainty and treasured with their long swirling dresses and precious gems weaved into their luxurious long hair.

Their lips were smeared red like petals of splendour. Their eyelashes, dark as if having been dipped in black oil, fluttered like seductive butterfly wings.

Harry didn't care for any of it.

Their charms, allures that chilled the air and drew ignorant boys like Francis, did not work on him. He was immune; his heart locked emotionlessly against their enticement.

Some of them were nothing more than a pretty picture that deserved only to be hung. Those were a waste of his costly time.

But then…there were those with outstandingly influential relatives. Rich in wealth and power. _Those_ were the ones he acquainted himself with.

It didn't do to let appearances slip.

**...**

Harry ducked into the dance crowd and halted a young gentleman dead in his tracks. "If I may take over from here…" he said softly.

The lad turned a shade of beetroot red. "_Potter_," he spat, spewing spittle in all directions, punctuating each letter of his last name hatefully, "don't you _know_ it is bad manners to interrupt a dance?"

Harry merely raised his eyebrows boldly. "Goodness knows what you mean, Ronald." he smirked. "It is _good manners_ to swoop in and save a lady from death by trodden feet." He winked at Ron Weasley's female companion, who looked ecstatically at him.

If possible, Ron flushed a darker shade of red than his carrot coloured hair. "_Potter_," he snarled, with the same amount of civility as a caveman, "keep your sweaty hands off my partner and get your own."

Harry almost laughed aloud at the immaturity of his words. "Ron," he said, stifling a chuckle, "please do yourself a favour and just… _quit_ humiliating yourself."

Ron's dance partner… Harry couldn't remember whether her name was Clara or Coraline… gazed adoringly up at Harry. Privately, he cringed at the obvious display of affection. It honestly was sickening.

"Ron, play it nice," she crooned. "Harry is so _considerate_."

He watched with derisive amusement as Ron's fists visibly tightened by his sides.

"You cannot _swoop_ _in_, as you say, and steal …_urgh_," Ron growled in frustration, baring a mouth full of teeth. He pulled an expression that could have curdled fresh milk at Harry.

"You'll learn you can't always have it your way… simply because you are _rich_. Riches can't buy girls," Ron snapped, brutishly.

_Oh yes, they can, _Harry mused, _because they prefer to flock to the prince rather than to the pauper. _

"Ooh, _Haarrry_."

He felt a small tug and found the foolishly simpering girl leeched onto his left arm. Harry barely managed to force a smile, but still it came out as charismatic as always. As a further taunt towards Ron – who constantly got on his nerves – he allowed her to remain there.

"Come on, Harry," she purred. "Never mind him. I'll comfort the big baby after we have our fun." She eagerly gave him her hand. "Grace me with the privilege of a dance."

Harry cast a fleeting glance at Ron, whose thunderous face had given way to uncontrollable fury.

"Who am I to deny a lady's wish?" Harry said easily. And to Ron, he said, "I do hope you will pardon me for taking Clara away for a little while."

"It's Clarissa," the girl corrected tenderly.

"Pardon?"

"It's Clarissa, not Clara."

"Oh." Harry gave a rueful smile. "Forgive me."

He was in high spirits – not because he won _Clarissa_ – but because of the priceless expression on Ron's twisted, ruddy face and the impression of an unintelligent, gawping goldfish he gave… not to mention the boy was also perspiring like a pig.

Content, Harry gave Clarissa his arm, turned his back icily on Ron, and led her back to the dance floor.

However, never in his wildest dreams did he expect Ron to do what he did next.

_Certainly_, Ronald Weasley had continuously scored a memorable place in Harry's mind for deeds of stupidity…  
But he had never struck Harry as the sort of person who would willingly sign his own death warrant.

Yes, he was as dense as a loaf of bread – but Harry had never he could be _so_ dense as to… and to do it so publically…

It was Harry's fulltime job to expect the unexpected – but here, regarding Ron Weasley, he faltered. And his mistake would entertain the High Court for the entire night.

As it was, Harry walked, with Clarissa in his arms, back to the dance floor. While his back was turned, Ron – in a fit of hatred – lashed out at him with his full strength.

If it had been in any normal circumstances, if he had been expecting the blow, he could have sucked in a deep breath of air and kept his balance.

In this instance, tragically, Harry had never thought the meaty fist would come in contact. And so… _he fell_. Accompanied by the high pitched shrieks of Clarissa.

Instantaneously, as if cursed, every single head in the hall turned towards the small group. Harry groaned. _Just bloody brilliant. _

Without making a fuss, and wincing slightly in pain, Harry leapt lightly to his feet to confront his panicked mother who had all but ran to him. Following her was Lord Voldemort with a cruel glint in his eyes that did not match the concerned expression on his face.

Harry threw on a pleasant grin and attempted to wave her away. _No such luck. _

"Heavens to Betsy, _Harry!_" the Countess gasped. "What on _earth_ happened to you?"

"There is nothing to worry about –" he began, only to be interrupted by the poor excuse of a girl, Clarissa.

"Forgive me, Countess, he – your son – I mean, Master Harry, he was attacked by Master Weasley," Clarissa babbled incoherently.

Harry looked daggers at the nuisance, hoping to shut her up before anything else poured forth from her foul mouth. Unfortunately, Lily got the gist of it. She turned on Ron, who had lost his red colour and was now blanching in the face of the furious Countess.

"Care to explain yourself, Mister Weasley?" Lily murmured dangerously. "And how you came to harm the heir of my household?"

"It was inexcusable," Ron muttered, eyes lowered in submissiveness. "But, my Countess, your _son_ took it upon himself to acquire my dance partner." A quiet anger remained in his voice, still.

"And so, you thought the most appropriate action to take was to knock his nose from his face?" Lily flapped her delicate, feathered fan wildly, as though desiring to slash it down on _Ron's_ face.

"It clearly is not," Ron said, "but my father will pay the compensations for the damage."

The Countess circled the pallid boy gently. "If you understand what is good for you, my boy, learn your _place_." Poison laced her voice.

Ill at ease, Harry took a step away from the scene. He longed to walk away from it all. Although he had managed to knock his childhood enemy into the tightest corner, the embarrassment of it all weighed down on him. He had _allowed_ Ron to take a swipe at him.

At that moment, Ron was saved by his father, who came running up to soothe the Countess. "Please," Baron Weasley said, "my son is impertinent, I urge you to accept two hundred pounds as a plead for tolerance. It will be delivered to your manor in a matter of days."

Ron turned a shocked expression on his father as if to say, _two hundred pounds! Is that necessary? _

"Since the young master seems fine, perhaps my Countess will be kind enough to let this incident drop?" the Baron asked.

Lily Potter's face twisted. "I will not be insulted by a payment in money," she sneered. "Your heir is lacking education. I suggest you give it to him. Let us dispense… we are causing too much drama."

And thus, they parted.

As soon as the Weasleys were gone, the Countess excused herself from Lord Voldemort's company; gathered Francis and Harry to her side, and departed from the feast.

A carriage pulled by four handsome horses was waiting outside. Lily sharply informed Harry to 'get in' before doing so herself.

Their coachman, a merry fellow, called out to them, "Enjoyed the evening, Countess? Tis grand, the King's place."

The jovial tone bounced off the Countess' freezing frontier like a shattering light bulb, who took no notice of the salutation. "Drive," she commanded, instead. "Make it fast."

The journey was silent, remote. Even Francis seemed to be affected by the unfriendly atmosphere and remained quiet.

Harry watched as the dark silhouette of the trees swept by, he listened intently to the _clip-clop_ of neatly trimmed hooves on the cobblestone street.

As the carriage moved further and further away from the castle, the lights grew dimmer and dimmer. There was no one on foot. No commoner was permitted near the castle.

Shrill winds screeched outside like banshees. It reminded him of the screeching he knew would start as soon as they were safely back within their own manor. These were times he wished he was not the son of a Countess but that of a middle-classed woman.

Before long, the contour of the Potter Manor loomed ahead of them. And then…the carriage wheels stopped.

Harry wrenched the carriage door open and sprung out, paying no attention to the shouts of Lily for him to wait.

He strode to the large front door of the manor and rapped loudly. It immediately creaked open, and he was welcomed inside by their middle-aged doorman.

"Good to see you back, Master Potter," the timeworn servant said gruffly, over his own humped back. "Tis reasonably late."

Feeling he owed the man at least a warning, Harry said, "Beware the Countess. She's in a temper."

Later, when the doorman opened the door for the Countess, she looked so incensed that he worried she would tear her eldest son apart.

Fortunately, it wasn't a fight but a heated conversation that took place in Harry's bedroom afterward.

"How _dare_ you embarrass me so publically at the feast?"

A low murmur came from Harry's throat, sounding like, _I beg to differ._

"You were a disgrace," the Countess snapped. "Sparring with the Weasley over a trivial young woman – _outrageous!_"

Harry's impassive expression did not change, and nor did he answer back. If anything, he looked bored rigid.

"You know, Harry, I hate to punish you," she said softly. "But your attitude is worsening. Perhaps a fortnight confined to your room can cure it. Don't try to come out, please, or I will know."

The door slammed shut behind the Countess.

Harry's eyes flashed sinisterly and he glided to his bookshelf, humming haunting tunes under his breath. Finally, his hand came to rest on a thick tome. _Pride and Prejudice, _it read.

He raised his hand and stroked its spine seven times. Slowly, the title vanished to be replaced by _Power of the Darkest Spells._


	3. A Woman's Shortcomings

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me!**

**Before we go on, I'd just like to say that I recently posted a new fiction called Swastika Ashes on the site. It is not getting many views, perhaps because of the small amount of interest in historical areas such as the Holocaust. I hope, as a favour, some of you can check it out – just to see if it suits your tastes.**

**I'd just like to thank my readers from Dawn Crux who have already helped me a great deal by taking a look at it. **

**Here is the summary:**

**1940, Second World War. Hitler's reign took its toll on Great Britain. When a German bomb hit Wool's orphanage, Harry Potter and Tom Riddle are forced to evacuate with other children on a London train heading for the docks. The train was intercepted, the children seized by Nazis. Held captive in a Berlin concentration camp, Harry is injured during an attempted escape and left to die.**

**Coincidentally found and blooded by an elderly vampire lord, Harry gains immortality and is introduced to a new, sophisticated world of aristocratic vampirism. Slowly, he finds his place and wins his maker's affection.**

**Decades later, in 1996, Lord Voldemort recruits vampire covens for the upcoming wizarding war, when he plans on destroying the Boy-Who-Lived. What is Harry's part in this...and how would this concern his new-found vampire family?**

**Grey! Vampire! Harry. Different Boy-Who-Lived. AU mentorship.**

* * *

His eyes raked the page thoroughly, focusing intently on every letter. Harry delved beneath the word itself, beyond the literacy meaning, beyond paper. He could almost feel the power rushing in him.

_The Unforgivable Curses. _

_What a wonderful name._ Harry sneered. The cowards who feared the very mention of the three sinister curses had attached the pathetic label '_Unforgivable' _to it.

_It is a curse of torture, inflicting excruciating pain on a victim,_ was written across the page. Harry longed to try his hand at the Cruciatus Curse.

He wondered how loudly Ron would scream. Considering his lack of endurance for pain, Harry gathered it would be loud enough to wake even the tightest of sleepers. But then again… he could always cast the Silencing Curse.

He sighed inwardly. He would have to be very discreet of his movements concerning the Dark Arts; it was strictly forbidden in the kingdom, punishable by death.

Everybody knew what happened to practitioners of dark magic. The last one was burned at the stake to crisp. Even his beloved dark magic hadn't been enough to save him from the King – or rather Dumbledore's – wrath.

Harry swore he would not meet his end the same way. After all, he had managed to hide his secret for years.

In fact, he could still remember the very first time he had gotten his hands on one of the numerous dark books that was lining his shelves.

It had sent the most thrilling sensation down his spine.

He had found the book on a vacation to the countryside, opened it, been curious about its contents, and set to try out the instructions himself. He had unleashed his first bolt of powerful dark magic when he was twelve.

And after that… it had been easy.

He trained himself in the dense forest nearby, secluded to all human eyes. In the beginning it had been little more than a game, a method to entertain himself.

But his power had strengthened over time, from the smallest of sand dunes to a force greater than a mountain.

Harry knew he couldn't give it up even if he'd wanted to… and he didn't want to, not in the slightest. All his pleasure came from the Dark Arts. It was like an addiction, a release, a black guardian angel.

It was the smallest of things at the start. He had practised spells on insects. It was not until he was thirteen that he decided he needed larger experimental things.

First it had been birds, squirrels and wild hares. And then he proceeded onto the deers occupying his family's hunting grounds.

Fortunately, his father had never noticed the marginal decrease in animal numbers during hunting season.

Now that he came to think about it, he had never attempted a dark curse on any human being –

_Tap, tap, tap. _His bedroom door opened and the Countess peered through. "Good afternoon, Harry," she said.

He slammed the Dark Arts book close with a heavy _thud_. _"Hello,"_ he drawled, heart pounding at the surprise invasion.

"You may come out now," she said gently. "It must have been _dreadfully_ boring in here."

"Quite on the contrary," Harry corrected, "it has been interesting." He flipped the book's cover towards the Countess.

"Pride and Prejudice?" Lily said. "I never knew you were fond of romantic works."

"A good work is a good work, whether romance is included or not," Harry said.

"All the same, come out and take a breath of fresh air with me," Lily suggested delicately. "Please, Harry, do not deny me the simple pleasure of my own son's company…"

It would have been inappropriate to resist her after such a comment, as much as Harry wished to.

"Excuse me while I prepare," he said, instead. "I'll be downstairs when I am ready."

—0O0—

Harry felt a prickling of discomfort as he accompanied the Countess on her walk in the shadow of the setting sun.

He had never been keen on spending time alone with his mother. She had a marvellous talent of boring him to death.

Her manner of walking – the petite steps and the grace of a haughty swan could easily be ignored if only she would stop demanding the same of him.

In front of company, Harry naturally could poise as the elegant, young, well brought up gentleman of a noble family…

However, he had failed to see the purpose of demonstrating unnecessary loveliness when faced with his mother.

Talking in the humidity of the late afternoon was stifling – but the conversation topic the Countess had chosen was even more so.

"Harry, you are sixteen…" she began.

He inwardly cringed, knowing the upcoming subject would be awkward.

"Francis is only fourteen… and yet he has made better progress than you," she said sorrowfully.

"In which areas?" Harry asked, with a faint bite of sarcasm. "Public etiquette, royal lessons… or _magic?_"

It was well known, to both those inside the Potter family and outside, that Harry was the magically powerful of the two siblings. His progress bordered on genius.

Lily waved away his question. "He has found himself a respectable female companion."

"Or _countless_ female _companions_," Harry muttered under his breath.

"Lady Roselle is the heiress to an impressive fortune, and she is the privileged daughter of one of the most renowned families in Court," the Countess continued. "Francis can boast of acquiring such a jewel."

Harry supressed a retch. Lily talked about female partners as if they were possessions. _Jewels – rubies, diamonds, sapphires, amethysts._

"You, on the other hand, have acquired no one. It has recently become the talk of the Court – that my eldest son is a complete, cold-hearted pebble, smooth on the surface and yet utterly undesirable_."_

"The reason is simple: I do not feel that there is anyone worth acquiring," Harry said coolly. "I can see none that pose as the perfect, unflawed gemstone for me."

"I can think of several."

"Oh?"

"Ladies Turpin, Parkinson, Paddington and Swansea, to only name a few," Lily said.

"Lady Turpin is twenty two years of age and Lady Swansea is _five years younger than me!_" Harry stated. "The age difference is outrageous."

"Hmm, perhaps Lady Turpin is slightly unsuitable… but I see no problem with Lady Swansea," she mused thoughtfully. "After all, the younger the bride the better."

A gagging fit would have made the moment perfect.

"Sadly, for the moment, I am uninterested in gaining myself a consort," Harry said, his tone glacial. "I have more to do with my life than simply… settling." His lip curled in distaste.

"My mother, your grandmother, once said to me," the Countess paused, "that marriage is structure, the possibility of a family, the beginning of a new adventure and the object of envy."

"It is restriction, a burden, an obstacle cutting across success," Harry countered. "It is the end. Answering to a woman."

"If I had not married your father, I would not _be_ the Countess!"

"We are wealthy enough," Harry said.

"But, just think, would it not be brilliant to join the wealth of two powerful bloodlines?" Lily protested.

"I have _other,_ powerful things to consider."

They both knew what he was talking about. _Magic._

"Oh, Harry," the Countess murmured softly, "magic is not everything. You must abide by the traditions of the High Court and propose when you reach the age of seventeen."

Harry's eyes narrowed. He had an inkling that the conversation would end in an uncivilised outburst. "Magic is our heritage. Women are optional. I can think of numerous cases where the eldest did _not_ propose at seventeen."

Lily sighed. "You are so stubborn."

"Always will be."

"Very well, we will cease this marriage talk for now," the Countess reluctantly said, in a tone that guaranteed she would not forget about it, "but you must promise me to think about it."

"I will."

"One more thing before we head back…" Lily said.

"Hmm?" Harry felt exasperated.

"You are becoming rather unrestrained. You hardly obey anyone anymore, _me_ in particular."

He didn't bother to reply, or to convince her otherwise.

"You are also lagging behind in artistic areas – such as music – which Francis, if I may add, is splendid at."

Lily looked at her son, as if expecting a reply, and turned away with an exhalation when he did not.

"Magic, as important as it is, is not a common strength in the High Court. I advise you to perfect your talents elsewhere," the Countess said. "Not many wizards spend as much time as you do on it."

"It is our legacy," Harry repeated. "The only quality that marks us apart from the Muggle monarchs."

"All the same, I have hired a gifted man to instruct and educate you until he brings you up to scratch. We see how much progress he makes on you… and if his methods work… perhaps we will consider allowing you to move to his household temporarily for better training."

Harry looked up, stunned. "I hate to put it like this," he said aloofly, "but I do not feel that it is necessary –"

"Oh, it is, Harry, it is," the Countess interrupted firmly. "I have made all the arrangements and your lessons will begin tomorrow."

He glared at her, the rage in his eyes burning a hole through her pale neck. "Who is my instructor?" he finally gritted out.

The Countess looked pleased. "Lord Voldemort, our new courtier."


	4. Perplexed Music

Perplexed Music

_"All the same, I have hired a gifted man to instruct and educate you until he brings you up to scratch. We see how much progress he makes on you… and if his methods work… perhaps we will consider allowing you to move to his household temporarily for better training."_

_Harry looked up, stunned. "I hate to put it like this," he said aloofly, "but I do not feel that it is necessary –" _

_"Oh, it is, Harry, it is," the Countess interrupted firmly. "I have made all the arrangements and your lessons will begin tomorrow."_

_He glared at her, the rage in his eyes burning a hole through her pale neck. "Who is my instructor?" he finally gritted out._

_The Countess looked pleased. "Lord Voldemort, our new courtier."_

* * *

Donna, the maid, timidly turned Harry this way and that, inspecting the fit of his new linen shirt and the cutaway morning coat.

"Brighten up, Master Potter," she said.

Her voice was light and featherlike. It was the voice of the ideal servant. The Countess had always possessed a preference for muted tones when it came to maids. 'Seen and not heard,' was the way she put it.

Harry, while hardly a confidante, was possibly the only person in the manor, aside from the other servants, with whom Donna could loosen around.

And even then, she was astonishingly guarded. It was a rarity when she spoke advices to him like now.

He sighed inwardly as the petite girl knelt down to fidget with his cuffs.

"It cannot be _that_ bad." Donna threw a fleeting look up at him. "Would you rather be scrubbing the floors, polishing the silverware and dusting the mistress' bedroom?"

Those were her daily jobs, he knew. And truth be told, he could not imagine doing such menial household tasks.

Suddenly, he felt a twinge of pity for the female, who had never been born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

"I guess not…" he relented.

"The Countess only has your best interests at heart."

A soft scoff escaped his lips before he could catch it. "Ah, yes, naturally," he remarked sarcastically, with a vicious bite that was not directed at the girl. "She wishes the best for her oldest son."

"She bought you new clothes," Donna gently pointed out. "It is considerate of her to fret over making a good impression in front of your tutor."

A dry smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Donna would never understand his life, not fully, anyway. For her, respectable clothes accompanied by a filling meal and a roof over her head were all living was about.

What Donna did not realise was that the 'considerate' gesture of tailoring new garments was more for the sake of his mother than him.

After all, she could not have him embarrassing her by donning anything less than the finest of fabrics in the presence of Lord Voldemort.

"You are all set, Master Potter," she said. "The Countess is expecting to introduce you to your teacher in the drawing room."

Harry gave a curt nod. "When I come back from my lessons in the morning, I'd like to lunch alone. Have it ready in my bedroom."

He made to leave.

"Master Potter." Donna looked flustered. "The Countess expects you to keep Lord Voldemort company throughout the whole day. She has given careful orders that you are to dine with him at midday and that you are to resume your lessons afterwards."

Almost immediately, his jaws tightened.

What in Merlin's beard was she playing at? Was this some sort of petty revenge for not courting a woman of high stand at sixteen like the perfect Francis?!

Eyes blazing with repressed fury, he turned on his heels and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him with a heavy thud.

It appeared she demanded him to waste his _entire_ day catering to the stranger who was soon to be his tutor.

_The whole day indeed!_

It was times like these that he wondered whether his mother was keen to bleed him dry of his patience.

Harry muttered a vulgar word under his breath, one that stood a high chance of giving the Countess a heart attack, and made the long, painful journey to the drawing room.

**...**

Harry glared unflinchingly into the bottomless pits of the blue eyes. He pushed all of his hatred, all of his disgust, into the fierce look.

If glares could kill, or if he was a Basilisk, Lord Voldemort would have toppled forward from his chair, thus breaking his infuriatingly elegant poise, and dropped dead on the carpet. If such a scenario did happen, he only hoped that the Countess would screech one of her notoriously shrill screams.

If it was even humanly possible, the courtier appeared yet more handsome than the last time Harry had seen him at the ball.

The aristocratic cheekbones, the prominent nose, the sharply sculpted features, the dark waves of hair and the roseate rims of the lips… all of those came together to create the very epitome of beauty and glory.

If Harry was judging by appearance, Lord Voldemort would have been flawless; from the tips of his fine, polished buckled shoes to the effortless smile he flaunted.

Unfortunately for his tutor, Harry was currently focusing on the ripples of authority and arrogance arising from the man rather than admiring the flowery surface.

"I know you are on familiar terms… but for the sake of maintaining an excellent student- teacher relationship, I may as well reintroduce you," the Countess said, and the courtier flashed another dazzling smile at Harry.

He had never felt less inclined to return it. Defiantly, he schooled his face into an expression of indifferent boredom.

"This is Lord Voldemort, who will be educating you at least seven hours a day and five days a week in the foreseeable future," the Countess told him. "Of course, you already are aware you must treat him with deserved respect."

Rebelliousness prompted him to instantly ask, "Like 'tutor' as in governess?"

Her face darkened. "No," she replied stiffly. "Governess refers to a woman whereas Lord Voldemort, on the other hand, is a _male_."

"Oops, forgive me," Harry chirped, satisfied at his small victory. "So he _is_ a male. Could have fooled me." He peeked up at his mother innocently, disguising his insolence as a bout of bad humour.

She looked like she was tempted to dig her nails into his arm and hiss out a threat. He revelled in the anger he had caused.

Lord Voldemort, regrettably, made a less appeasing picture for Harry. The man let out a series of rich chuckles and swept his eyes curiously across Harry, assessing him. "Ah, wit," he said, in amusement. "I like it."

Harry had not expected laughter. Perhaps the man was more of a handful than he previously gave him credit for. "Thank you for your compliment, my Lord."

"Welcome."

His tutor faced the Countess and gave her a reassuring nod. "Feel free to leave him with me," he said. "Not only will I make him improve into certain artistic areas he falls behind in… but I can also teach him the meaning of respect."

The last part of the deceptively harmless sentence conveyed a hidden message that gave Harry an odd sensation of impending doom.

"I trust you, my Lord," the Countess graciously replied. "I'll hand him over to you, then. Do with him what you wish… and hopefully you can lick him into shape."

The glance that Lord Voldemort sent in his direction made rapid shudders run down his spine. "Oh, I will, my Countess… I assure you I will. By the time I am done with him, he will be a changed person."

As soon as the door closed behind the Countess, Harry whirled to face the striking man. "So," he said with fake frivolity, "what if I do not want to be a changed person?"

Voldemort arched a delicate eyebrow. "Then, I guess your wishes will have to be disregarded," he answered playfully.

Beneath the lively tone lurked an ominous intent.

Harry gazed at him silently, without uttering a word. For a moment, the man held his eye – but broke away when it became clear that Harry planned stay like a statue for the entire lesson.

"Now," Voldemort said, gesturing at the grand piano in the room, "won't you play that for me? I am eager to hear the standard you are at."

"Yes, Sir." Harry took his position.

"Firstly, you may refer to me as Tom since we are alone… and I am only your senior by two years," Voldemort said.

Despite the young age of the man, Harry had thought of him as simply 'Lord Voldemort'… In all honestly, he'd never suspected the courtier owned such a _plain_, let alone short, first name.

"Play me Beethoven's first piano sonata in F minor, if you will."

"Uh, yes… certainly." Harry was beginning to feel discomforted. How the hell was _he_ supposed to have any idea how to play the bloody thing? Wasn't _Tom_ meant to be teaching it to him?

He had usually rejected music lessons in favour of magical ones in the past. As far as he was concerned, music was useless.

Pushing up his longs sleeves in an attempt to stall for time, he cracked his fingers loudly and flashed his instructor the stunning grin he had been withholding ever since he entered the room. "Um, yeah, I know how –"

He didn't even get to complete his sentence. Harry hissed in a mixture of astonishment and pain as Voldemort's knuckles came crashing down on his fingers. Hard.

"Merlin!" he nearly shouted, springing from his seat. "What was _that_ for?"

The wretched man stood there as if nothing out of ordinary had occurred, ignoring the pink tint glowing across the hand in front of him, and shrugged gracefully.

"You will learn not to crack your fingers so rudely," he tsked. "_My_ teacher used to teach _me_ that way – and the method works miraculously well."

Harry looked daggers at him. "You are not allowed –!"

"Your mother put her signature on my sheet of requirements before I was hired. One of the listed bullet points stated that I was to be given permission for any approaches, given that I do not cause any, ah, _permanent damage_."

His jaw dropped in shock. Harry chugged down a mouthful of horror and swallowed slowly.

"Obviously, your mother can choose to fire me, but I doubt she will be willing to find you yet another suitable instructor. Besides, she has _read_ and _agreed_ with my requirements."

"Well, I –"

"You will put up with me, Harry." The velvety voice sounded suspiciously entertained. "You should hurry and play me the music."

Harry closed his eyes in frustration. _This was a damned nightmare. _And now, he could not very well tell the brute of a man that he did not know how. Otherwise who knew which one of his _approaches_ he would employ.

"All right." Harry felt the pressure of his wand in his sleeve and he shifted it slightly so that the tip was pointing towards his hands. "Ludere," he whispered under his breath. He felt a tickle and understood the spell had worked.

He shot Voldemort, or _Tom_, a look of triumph and placed his fingers on the keys.

A lovely sound filled the room. It was as soft as the murmurs of water and flowed so smoothly, trickling over the walls.

Harry could hardly believe that his fingers were creating such wonders… well, he _could –_

"You know, one cannot help but question whether you take me for a fool," Lord Voldemort spoke mildly, albeit dangerously. His lips tilted into an unpleasant, predatory smile.

"I do not know what you mean." Harry glowered at the wizard, not daring to think he had been caught in the act.

Lord Voldemort extended a pale palm. "Give me your wand."

"… What?" Harry played dumb.

"You are an intelligent young man, I can see," he said. "Tragically, the fact you do not comprehend is that your cunning tricks used to cheat your way out of lessons, however effective they may be for others, will not work on me."

He blanched at the words, feeling as though some blasted idiot had slipped ice down his collar. "My Lord –"_ How on earth did he figure it out?_ As far as Harry knew, most wizards in the high courts simply discarded magic for politics.

"Tom."

"Okay, _Tom_, I realise this may be the last thing you expect…" Harry took his wand out and moved forward as if to place it in the outstretched palm, "and I am sincerely sorry."

At the last second, instead of letting the wand go, Harry swiped it upwards while snapping, _"Obliviate!"_

Lord Voldemort barely blinked. In the next fraction of a second, a swelling blue wrapped him securely inside, like a cocoon.

The memory charm was easily deflected.

Harry took a stumbling step back in alarm while his tutor merely raised an eyebrow at him; he could simply not believe the sheer number of bad things happening to him today.

"Was that necessary?" the courtier inquired sweetly, allowing the shield to fade into nonexistence. He marched forward until he had trapped Harry in a corner of the room. "I am beginning to tire of this drama that comes with being your babysitter."

"You-you performed _wandless_ magic!"

"So I heard," he said dryly. "And you, boy, tried to wipe my memory."

Harry found himself pressed against the wall. "I'm really sorry," he mumbled.

"Are you really?" Voldemort asked.

"Yes!"

"Get back on the piano; I want to see what you can do _without the assistance of magic_."

* * *

**I really, really appreciate reviews! Cheers!**


	5. An Eyesore

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter doesn't belong to me!**

**Sorry I left Dawn Crux, but for the time being, I cannot continue. But at least I'm updating this! Please review! :)**

* * *

As they entered the garden, the maids bombed them from left, right and centre, each carrying a dish of overtly rich food. Harry spotted soup, herring, syllabub, preserved raspberries, cakes… each was so blatantly colourful that it hurt his eyes.

In the middle of the garden, under a dappled shade, was a table. Harry knew it was meant for him and his tutor.

A bitter taste invaded his mouth, and he wished he could spit onto the sidewalk, but then again, that sort of behaviour was inappropriate coming from the heir of a powerful family.

Lord Voldemort was smiling when he sat down, and Harry desperately wanted to reach forward and wipe that smirk off.

"Please sit…" Voldemort murmured, gesturing pleasantly at the chair opposite him. "There is no need to wait on me when we are so well acquainted already."

Harry curbed the urge to sneer.

While the dishes began piling on the table, brought by the butler, Harry glared miserably down at his hands. They were still a dull shade of pink; a mark of how much he loathed the _impressive_ new courtier.

"The Countess is excessively considerate to gift us with the pleasure of dining on such… extravagances…" Lord Voldemort said.

"She likes to show off," Harry responded sullenly.

A subtle twitch of the lips told Harry that he had managed to bring the man sincere amusement with that comment.

"I doubt she will appreciate such harsh words coming from her son…"

Harry ignored him in favour of stabbing viciously at the piece of herring on his silver plate, feeling a sense of triumph when Lord Voldemort, too, fell silent.

He cursed his mother to the high heavens for making him spend the better part of the day accompanying such an insufferable man.

The morning had been a failure, and everything had spiralled downhill from the point that he had attempted, and rather unsuccessfully too, to wipe the man's memory of him cheating during the lesson.

After that, he had been forced to repeat notes on the piano, under Tom's narrowed eyes and a very demanding hand which slammed across his own whenever he made a mistake.

Merlin, Harry detested Lord Voldemort.

Said man was observing Harry as he ate; he could just sense the infuriating eyes penetrating him, undressing his every movement, judging him. He felt horribly ill at ease under the intensity of such stares.

_Why could the man not concentrate on his own food and leave him alone?_

"Has something of interest caught your eye, my Lord?" Harry enquired mildly, forcing his tone to soften in order to sound less like he was demanding. "I can see you gaping at it…" He let out a small laugh. "It has to be _very_ fascinating to make you abandon your meal like that…"

"Indeed it has caught my eye," Tom replied, with an amiable nod of his head. "Except it is truly insignificant, pathetic, almost. It is just an animal flitting through the trees. Diverting at first glance, but it will likely not even make it past the hunting season."

Harry wondered if there was a second meaning behind his words, since they both knew exactly what Lord Voldemort was looking at. Him.

"Yes, the garden is connected to my father's hunting grounds," Harry said. "Though it is rather rare that a beast ventures out this far."

"It seems like the trait of bravery and foolishness can raise its head even in mere animals," Tom said. Harry stared at a single grape as it made its way into Voldemort's mouth on the tip of a silver fork.

Voldemort caught his eyes, and offered another smile. "Try it? The grapes are exceptional, and a great deal gentler than the thick creams."

It was that moment that Harry realised the new courtier cared for neither his mother's efforts to impress him nor the rich foods that had been laid in his way. Lord Voldemort would play the game with his own approach where the demonstrations of wealth were irrelevant.

"Your mother wishes for you to continue your lesson with me after lunch, and I must say _I_ am looking forward to it."

Harry glanced up into the blue eyes.

"Your posture requires correction, as does the way you walk," Voldemort resumed. "What say you…? _Harry_?"

It was the first time that Lord Voldemort had used his first name and Harry decided he didn't much care for it.

"I say we stick to titles of formality, my Lord," he answered stiffly, "in order to maintain a healthy student and teacher relationship. After all, we are not yet _friends_ in the proper sense of the word."

Voldemort's expression darkened marginally, and Harry briefly wondered whether he had crossed the line and managed to provoke the man a little too much.

After seeing the man wield wandless magic as if it was the simplest thing, he knew it was a bad idea to get on the wrong side of the new courtier, but he had not been able to help himself from testing his tutor's temper.

"Forgive me, my Lord, it came out imperfectly. Allow me to amend myself –"

Lord Voldemort flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. "No need," he said. "I understand perfectly well what you mean."

Harry had been hoping that lunch would end without any drama, but his hopes were dashed when his gaze snagged onto a singular figure in the throng of maids and butlers.

The Countess herself was proudly walking towards them, and even worse, she had Francis at her side.

His brother was dressed elaborately from top of bottom, looking more like a decorated rose than anything else.

He stifled a groan.

No doubt Francis was eager to greet the new courtier and make acquaintances while turning himself into the center of attention. Francis had always possessed a narcissistic streak while transformed easily into full blown arrogance when he was trying to make an impact on someone.

"Ah, my Countess…" Voldemort had stood up courteously, leaving Harry sitting alone and feeling as though he was being extremely rude by not standing too. "To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you and your second son?"

"We –"

Lily did not even finish her sentence before Francis cut in and answered for both of them in the most insolent manner possible. "We thought it appropriate to keep an eye on our new tutor and his _student_."

Harry grimaced at the egotistical, supercilious tone of voice. He knew it was directed at him rather than Lord Voldemort, but it could easily be misinterpreted.

He did not know whether to feel satisfied that Francis had magnificently embarrassed himself or to feel ashamed on his brother's behalf.

He sighed inwardly. At times he did not know where his mother's affections for her youngest son came from, seeing as he was impertinent and brazen with his tongue at the worst of times and in front of important company.

"I thank you for this banquet," Voldemort told Lily. "It has been wonderful. I am sure the King would like to hear of this kindness towards guests. Perhaps next time I can persuade him to come along."

Lily Potter flushed with pleasure she did not even bother to disguise. "Oh, you're too kind, my Lord. It is us who are privileged you can be here."

"Please sit."

Only after Francis and the Countess were seated did Lord Voldemort finally allow himself to return to his chair.

If Tom was trying to charm his audience, Harry could tell it was already working. Lily was captivated with his level of politeness, and she was blushing like a schoolgirl when Voldemort pulled out the chair for her.

"You see," Lily began when she was settled, "after Francis heard that our Harry has gotten a splendid tutor all to himself, Francis was resolute on becoming your second pupil. I told him you were busy but he would have none of it."

Francis nodded smugly.

And Harry could feel the superiority vibrating off him in waves; it appeared that Tom could also sense it, if the imperceptible pursing of the lips was anything to be judged upon.

"As it was, I told him that he could come and ask you to find out for himself whether you can assist."

"I promise I can match Harry in competence…" – Francis flaunted a grin – "… if not beat him."

Voldemort barely spared him a fleeting sideways look while Lily chuckled softly as though it was a delightful joke.

"My son is very determined," Lily said.

Harry was sure Voldemort would accept, but to his surprise, he found himself hoping that the man would refuse.

Being taught by Lord Voldemort was terrible enough; he did not think he could bear it if Francis was there to witness his humiliation as well.  
On the other hand, Voldemort teaching Francis might help Harry avert some of the attention off himself.

"I am afraid not," Lord Voldemort sighed regretfully. "Francis looks to be a very promising young man, brimming with potential, but I can only take on one student at the most. It is for the best that I educate Harry alone. The amount of time is simply not enough."

Harry swore he could hear Francis cussing under his breath.

"Harry and I can trade places," Francis piped up immediately. "Do you not agree, mother? Because I think _that_ would be for the best. It is unbecoming to let a perfectly good tutor go wasted."

It was an insult to both Harry and Lord Voldemort.

At this, Voldemort's eyes glistened dangerously. For a fraction of a second, the blue pools flashed crimson. Harry was sure it was a trick of the light but it was daunting, nonetheless.

Meanwhile, Francis was oblivious to the irritation of the new courtier.

"Well, yes, but that would mean –" Lily looked discomforted. Things, apparently, were flying out of her control. "We can always find you someone else, Francis. Come, let us go, and leave Lord Voldemort and Harry to finish their lunch."

For now, Harry had kept himself away from the argument, but really, he should have expected Francis to turn on him. The boy had always been a spoilt, obnoxious, vindictive, little swine with a rotten attitude.

While Francis could behave charmingly when he pushed himself, he also had a disregard for the opinions of others, especially those he considered beneath him. He was unusually rude to the servants, and Harry was aware he had sent more than one of his governesses running away from the mansion in tears.

Francis was also horrendous when things did not go his way.

As it was, he did not care much for the judgement of the new tutor because, as everyone knew, the position of a lord was below the position of a countess.

Still, Francis looked around to make sure Lily was deep in conversation with Lord Voldemort and that neither were paying attention before, with a wicked look on his face, he shoved a bowl of boiling soup over Harry's lap, who only had time to suck in a stunned breath.

Harry instantly felt his legs blistering when the liquid poured all over him. A yelp left his lips, loud enough to draw both Voldemort and the Countess, and he felt pinpricks of pain scattered all over his flesh.

Merlin, it hurt.

"Dear God, Harry, I am so, so sorry!" Francis yelled, still with a smirk on his plump face. "Did that hurt? You have to –!"

One more glance at that sneer caused Harry to lose what self-restraint he had left.

He sprung up from his seat like a gazelle, and taking no notice of Lily's cry of horror, brandished his wand like a whip. He saw red.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a faint smile ghost over Voldemort's lips, and he saw the arched eyebrows which seemed to send a mocking message of _'what are you waiting for, Harry? Are you too cowardly to take revenge?'_

His wand flashed.

_"Pareo."_

All the silverware and cutlery rose from the tables at his command, knives and forks hovering menacingly with their sharp ends directed at Francis, plates looking like they would belt the boy over the head.

_"Expulso."_

The spell came out as a merciless hiss.

All the cutlery came drifted dangerously close to Francis' eyes, and then they all exploded in his face.

There was a whimper of pain, and Francis collapsed in a pathetic heap on the ground. The Countess deserted her look of alarm, and she ran to help him.

The last of Harry's adrenaline left him, and he glanced nervously first at Lord Voldemort and then at the sobbing Francis.

"Dear Merlin, Francis, are you alright?"

"I can't see," Francis moaned.

Those words sent an automatic shudder down Harry's spine.

_Had he gone too far this time?_


	6. Under the Black Swan's Wing

Under the Black Swan's Wing

Howls ripped through the air, and Harry winced as the sounds assaulted his ears relentlessly. His brother just wouldn't stop c_rying!_ If it wasn't for the dire situation, Harry thought he might have laughed.

Francis was cupping his eyes, shielding them with one hand, whimpering like he was being beaten to death when the Countess tried to pry his hand off in order to get a good look at his eyes.

How much more pathetic can one get?

"Sshhh, darling, let me see," Lily soothed, rubbing circles on his back. "Come, it cannot be _that_ bad, Francis. Let me see, please…"

Hesitantly, Harry glanced sideways at Lord Voldemort. He did not know why, but there seemed to be a quality of the man that suggested _he_ might know what to do.

Harry half expected to be heavily reprimanded for his actions by his new tutor, but the older wizard only stared at Harry expressionlessly, offering nothing whatsoever, neither consolation or rebuking.

He grimaced, and averted his gaze.

Meanwhile, Francis cried harder, cheeks rapidly turning a brilliant shade of pink as he bawled and snivelled.

Spoilt little piglet.

For a second, Harry wondered whether the boy was truly crying sincerely or if he was playing it up, exaggerating his pain, to get Harry in further trouble. If the former, then Francis could only be described as shameful; if the latter, Harry was determined to pay him back later.

"Oh, Francis, it will be alright," Lily Potter said tenderly. "You'll be fine, I promise, you will be as good as new when I'm done with you, you wait and see."

"Mother…" Francis managed to quash his sobs long enough to exclaim pitifully, "I am going to be blind, aren't I? Blind for the rest of my _lifetime!_ Lady Roselle will never wish to stay by my side and grow old with me!"

A soft snort of derisiveness came from behind him.

Too soft for anyone to hear but Harry.

He whirled around just in time to see an amused look on Voldemort's face vanish to be replaced by an expression of seemingly genuine concern for young Francis, but it was too late to hide, and the courtier seemed to realise it too.

Harry gaped blatantly at the man, not in horror but in sheer astonishment. Was Voldemort not sympathizing with the poor little piglet and hating the big bad wolf? Was he actually disdainful, just as Harry was, of the whole picture?

Lord Voldemort moved from the spot, striding towards Lily who was huddling over her beloved son, stopping for the briefest of times as he passed Harry.

Harry felt himself tense as his tutor pressed his mouth close to his ear and hissed softly, "Watch and learn, boy, and see if you can memorise the wand movement…"

He was bewildered, greatly so, and it must have shown excessively because the next thing he knew, the man heaved sigh and placed a finger to his lips as though they shared a valuable secret.

"And, Potter –" Voldemort tilted his head and gave him the tiniest trace of a smirk, "– shut your mouth before anyone sees you catching flies."

With that, Voldemort strutted forward, leaving Harry staring like an idiot in his wake.

When the courtier reached the Countess, he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Step aside, please, and I will heal Francis… It is just a couple of broken china shards."

Lily shifted away, almost disbelievingly.

"_Sarcio_."

Lily screamed when pieces of fragmented china tainted with blood escaped from Francis's eyelids and landed on the glass with soundlessly.

"My Countess," Voldemort said, with an imperceptible bow, "your son will be in perfectly good health if you summon a servant, allow him rest for the rest of the day, and spare some mild cream for his eyes."

Countess Potter did exactly that, clicking her fingers at the crowd of terrified maids who had bunched together a little way away when they witnessed the accident, too scared to interfere or offer help when their mistress never asked for it.

A pale girl with fair hair hurried forward, flanked by two others, and after some effort, managed to share Francis's weight between them and lift him by his middle.

"Take him to his bedroom and attend to him properly," Lily snapped. "If I find out he has been neglected, you can be sure that your career in my house is finished."

The three maids fled quickly… well, as fast as they could while being burdened down with a plump male body.

Lily watched under the three servants had disappeared from sight before twisting around. She had a hideous look that seemed to contrast sharply with the refined features on her heart shaped face. Her brow twitched furiously as she stared hard at Harry.

"I did not mean –"

"You _did_ mean it, Harry, I saw you waving that wretched wand of yours and chanting your _damned_ incantation," Lily hissed.

Harry blinked.

The Countess never swore; she was too prim and proper for curse words, and yet here she was spitting out the word she had often reproached him for saying…

_Oh, how the mighty have fallen_…

"He is your _brother_, you wicked child, your own flesh and blood – and you stood there, calm as anything, and cursed him," Lily shrieked. "I expected better from you!"

He took an unconscious step back as his mother advanced upon him, eyes wild with unrestrained rage at the harm that had befallen her favourite. What a banshee. Her screaming and screeching was giving him a headache.

With an inward sigh to himself, Harry impatiently attempted to shut the noise out and ignore her and let her lose her steam.

"You disgrace me, Harry, and my abilities of successfully rearing a child," the Countess continued, voice grating harshly against his ears. "I taught you to be a decent young man... And you disappoint me and give me _this_ instead."

Anger raised its ugly head within Harry, and he found himself glaring right back. "Oh yes? Well, if _Francis_ is your prime example of a gracious, well-bred boy, then that _definitely_ says something about your nurturing capabilities."

Striking green eyes met striking green.

"Is this how you speak to your mother?"

He disregarded the comment in favour of retorting, "My _dear_ brother poured a bowl of steaming soup over me. What part of his _lovely_ behaviour are you going to reward?"

"I've had enough of your sarcasm."

Harry seethed, irritation churning in his stomach, but even in his ferocity, he could still sense his rationality reminding him that Voldemort was playing audience to their little family exchange. He immediately felt mortified.

Shoving his personal emotions to the back of his mind and firmly bottling them up, Harry inhaled deeply and put up both hands in a peace gesture.

"I apologise for my conduct; I cannot condone them," he said. "It was foolish of me to lose my temper so easily, not only with Francis, but also with you."

The Countess, too, seemed to be embarrassed by Lord Voldemort's presence, and she usually refrained from speaking too much in front of company.

"I will be having a word with your father," she finally said icily. "Perhaps he can opt for a more appropriate punishment for you. We have been too lenient and allowed you to get away with things you should not have been able. This is our fault as parents. From this day on, I will keep a tighter rein on you."

Harry could not help unleashing one last remark of biting wit, "Indeed, keep a tighter rein on the family dog, eh?"

Lily flushed an unpleasant beetroot red. "Your disrespect will not be tolerated in this house, and from now on, any disobedience will result immediately in sanctions imposed upon you and specific rights taken away."

From the corner of his eyes, Harry caught a glimpse of the smile playing on Lord Voldemort's lips. He instantly felt offended. Did the arguments in their family _entertain_ the dratted man? Or was there an ulterior reason for his apparent pleasure?

"I did not expect to have to deal with you so soon," Lily continued. "I thought the fortnight you spent confined to your room due to your fight at the feast was more than enough to teach you right from wrong. I knew you had a discipline problem… but this… is simply too extreme. Poor Francis –"

Harry started as Voldemort smoothly interrupted the Potter matriarch in midsentence. "If I may put forward a bit of information, dear Countess… I am experienced not only in teaching students the arts and etiquette, but I have also managed to correct their substandard attitudes in the former families I worked for. I believe I may be of assistance in this case, for your son has what I like to call an overdose of pride."

_An overdose of pride?! _

Harry stiffened in fury.

"And since I am living at your mansion and enjoying your kind hospitality, I am thinking that there is no better resolution than paying your eldest son a bit of extra attention and schooling him into that responsible young man who is ready to inherit everything from his father…"

Said 'eldest son' was watching Lily's face light up as though Christmas had come early through eyes that were narrowed angrily into slits.

"I too believe someone needs to keep a careful eye on you. I will have you moved to Lord Voldemort's quarters where he can direct you out of trouble. We have given him two bedrooms, so you can switch to one of them without difficulty… From tonight onwards, you will live there. You don't mind, do you, my Lord?"

The courtier shook his head. "It is a wonderful idea, my Countess."

Harry was shocked into silence.

His fists clenched by his sides and his teeth gritted together.

Damn her.

But somehow, as he threw a glance at Voldemort, he could not help but wonder if the man was pleased about the new arrangements. The courtier had a strange glint in his blue eyes, and an indiscernible smile on his face.

Damn him too.

**...**

In the evening, Harry soon realised that his smaller bedroom was appallingly close to his tutor's, so close, in fact, that he suspected the other would hear through the wall if he dared even to _breathe_ too loudly.

Even worse, the two rooms were joined by a bathroom and a small sized lounge between them, which meant that Harry would be sharing the same bathroom with Lord Voldemort, much to his disgust.

This also meant that Voldemort could walk into Harry's bedroom at his leisure and vice versa. This offered Harry no sense of security, for he had an entire overflowing bookshelf of books that had the treacherous dark magic scribbled all over them.

He shuddered to think what would happen if his tutor discovered them. Report it to his parents, probably. And then they would disown him. And that thrice damned Albus Dumbledore would sentence him to be burned at the stake.

If Harry ever wished to curl up on the living room sofa with a good tome, he would have to put up with Voldemort's presence too, as if he would not spend enough time with the other during their upcoming lessons…

He was offered no privacy.

No. Bloody. Privacy.

He wished he could scream aloud.

But _no_, that was not possible, because Voldemort would hear _instantly_ and rush into his bedroom to see what was wrong, and Harry would lose the leftovers of what privacy he still owned. He plunged his fist into the wall, and a jolt of pain shot up his knuckles.

Son of a rich Countess indeed; he wondered why he could not have been born as a commoner. Heir to the Potter inheritance… _Pah!_ He was expected to marry an eligible female who would coo over him for the rest of his lifetime… That would truly be the end.

Damn them all.

If Lord Voldemort was going to correct _his_ attitude, then Harry could only hope to make his time here hell.


End file.
